Saturday, 3 January 2009
The view from the telescope.
Vision
Picture this.
A desolate landscape, with a towering hill, that leans against the sky. You are at the bottom. looking up. The air is a still silence, warm and hazy. Colours are luminescent and they seep into the sound. Dotted down the hill are electricity towers, that look like skeletons. Thin lines of cable join them together as though they were holding hands.. There are neon blue waves of light pulsating down each line. The only sound is the constance from the movement of energy. You can hear your own heart beat, pulsating in rhythm. Birds flutter, and take off from the cables, where they were once sat, leaving traces of neon light, and crackling sparks.
The grass is a long dry green, but soft and swaying. There are dandelions that fizz and sparkle. A static shock to the touch, sending segments drifting into the stillness of the air, almost in slow motion.
Tuesday, 25 November 2008
This world is beautiful. This world is sensational and complex.
I am shape. I am the arc of bended light. I am the tail of a comet, streaming through a cascading fall of stars. I am impact that shakes your world.
I am time. I am the rings inside a sleeping oak amidst a warm November fog. I am the roots that tunnel the earth. I am the den in your dreams.
I am texture. I am the delicate touch of a thousand kind words. I am speech. I am the harmonic tones in love song that you have never heard.
I am line. I am the boundary between two worlds. I am the courage you don't have to cross it.
I am idea. I am the constant changing thought between pencil and paper. I am the expression in your fingertips.
I am an artist. I am your tendency to dream.
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
Cacoethes scribendi - An insatiable urge to write.
Piece for the 'Big draw', that is on the Leeds Met library Window
Other versions of the Flutes front cover, with RGBY and pastel shades.
Tuesday, 7 October 2008
Monday, 1 September 2008
Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens...
'Walker, 37, loves, he says, turning 'funny daydreams into funny photographs,' adding that he lives much of the time 'in an imaginary world', a world rooted in real-life and memory, specifically the British countryside of his childhood: the manicured landscape of Surrey and the wilder downlands of Sussex and Dorset. He admits to a subscription to Country Life and 'a very happy childhood'. His days at Exeter Art College were happy, too, spent making for the camera 'crowns out of wheat and going round junk shops and making things in the kitchen. I liked to walk through the countryside with a camera and photograph the people I knew. When I had a camera there was always a reason to go somewhere.'
'Page from scrapbook 'Vogue Pantomime', 2004, British Vogue. The fashion editor Kate Phelan recalled that she 'went by the rule that anything went as long as it had a theatrical twist. I was free to go mad. This was not the shoot for the Little Black Dress.' There was little chance of that, Vogue agreed: 'Next to the clothes rails sat a grinning Cheshire cat, a wolf’s head, a giant squishy pumpkin, bags of wigs from the BBC costume department, fake silver armour, hats from the milliner Stephen Jones's archives and 20 tulle ballerina skirts.'
Sunday, 3 August 2008
Humming bird, You've lost your bedroom eyes.
It's a nice warm evening here. I've just settled down and began to watch Miss Potter, over a bowl of Country Crisp.
'There's something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You can never quite tell where they will take you'
It makes me wonder exactly why I even sit here and scatter these thoughts and words across a page. I wondered if I was just keeping an online diary, a diary which holds no privacy at all. I often think I am an open book. Or perhaps I am writing some unintentional, kind of manifesto, or maybe, it's a bit of allsorts. As i don't really write this for anyone specifically. I am not vein enough to think anyone would be the slighest bit interested in my chatter. All the same, I love to type and reflect so there we are.
Now this line is amazing...
'You see, we cannot stay at home all our lives, we must present ourselves to the world, and we must look upon it as an adventure'
Something I need to remind myself, only too often.
Today I have been dreaming and dreaming and dreaming some more. I really must start collecting them up in jars, for rainy days. As I'd hate to forget some of them. I really am quite eager to draw at this very moment, but I only ever reach the same problem. My drawing ability is nowhere near as strong as my ability to conjure up some thoughts. I'm almost certain that the perfect occupation for me, would to be a dream seller. I could just sell people my idea's and dreams and words, in jars. People like me, and you, could wake up on a morning and pour themselves a cup of coffee, (or tea, if you are a tea person. Coffee has an acquired taste.) reach into the cupboard for a jar of dreams and spread it thickly, just like jam, on their two slices of toast.
Oh yes, sincere apologies for the half images in my previous addition. I didn't realise that they had to be a certain size. An error I shan't make again. Fret not.
We found a field at sunset. The grass was tall and covered with flowers. We lay a while, and with each exhale, I felt myself sink in to the earth, imagining the strands of grass and leaves wrapping themselves around me and pulling me into the ground, covering my like a blanket. Making me a part of them, as much as the clouds are apart of the sky.
Inspire the inspired x
